


Imagine Thranduil finding you unconscious in the hall from blood loss due to self harm

by forestofmyown



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/107530070072/imagine-thranduil-finding-you-unconscious-in-the</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING for self harm, slight gore, and blood.  If you are struggling with self harm, please seek assistance (I have a tab of emergency links on my blog’s sidebar if you need help finding someone to contact about these issues).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine Thranduil finding you unconscious in the hall from blood loss due to self harm

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/107530070072/imagine-thranduil-finding-you-unconscious-in-the
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for self harm, slight gore, and blood. If you are struggling with self harm, please seek assistance (I have a tab of emergency links on my blog’s sidebar if you need help finding someone to contact about these issues).

Too deep too deep too deep you cut too deep so much blood it’s bleeding too much can’t stop it make it stop—

Your hand wraps around your wrist desperately, fingers pressing together tightly to form a barrier, but the thin red liquid seeps through and your hand slips forward due to the wetness on your skin. This pulls apart the cuts further instead of holding them closed like you’d wanted, and even more blood comes pumping out in a steady flow. The slices in your skin are smooth, clean except for the crimson dye emerging, the edges puckering away slightly to free the blood. You can see the flesh beneath, the awful sight of muscle never meant to be seen.

It’s a vile yet grotesquely fascinating thing. Your stomach rolls. Dark spots circle the edges of your vision, the world around you grows fuzzy, and the red ooze thickens in your gaze as you readjust your grip to try and stem the flood.

You keep running, breathing hard and steps uneven, the room swaying and the floor shifting and your chest aching.

Too deep. Iluvatar, it’s too deep. What have you done?

There’s an odd, panicked laughter bubbling in your throat. Tears spill from your eyes.

It’s hurts. But that’s part of what you wanted, isn’t it? By the stars, it hurts.

You’re on the floor. You don’t know how you got there. Your side hurts from knee to hip to shoulder, and you try to roll into a sitting position, hand scrambling to keep fingers locked around wrist.

You snort. More tears fall. They hit the floor around you, mixing with the blood that’s pooling at your knees. It seeps in to the stonework in places, leaving pink stains.

Hiccups and wet sobs choke back the laughter. Your hand tightens again as black and white fuzz takes over your vision, taking sight from you. Going by feeling alone, you try to hold back the bleeding, unsure why you want it to stop and unwilling to call for help to accomplish this goal.

Everything is confusion and chaos. It’s something.

And then it’s not.

When it is again, it’s different. There’s still pain and panic and satisfaction all jumbled in one, but there’s also warmth and light and the scent of elder berries and spring rain.

Your arm is held up, above you, hand high with long, white fingers soaked in blood wrapped around the wrist.

Odd. Those aren’t you fingers.

Testing this theory, you flop your other arm and find it laying on your other side.

Oh. You’re laying down. How did that happen?

The bed beneath you is soft, and the blood trails snaking down your arm are dry and flaking. Some of the blood has been washed away around your injuries, though, which are now wrapped in clean fabric as well as a comforting hand.

Those pink stained fingers are rubbing, massaging, holding you tightly. The bleeding has stopped, it seems, as no new liquid emerges when he moves his digits.

His. He.

It’s Thranduil. There is blood all over his usually pristine, white robes, spotting the fabric in wild, garish patterns across his legs, knees, chest, and arms. Even his face is smeared with it, and you wonder how that happened for a moment before he leans forward with those impossibly long lashes hooding his eyes to nuzzle his cheek against your bloody hand. His movements are slow, gentle, and roam as he brings your hand up to his forehead and lets out a ragged breath.

He looks in so much pain. His mouth is twisted, eyes cringing, shoulders almost trembling beneath some invisible weight as he bows over you. Such anguish should never mar that beautiful face.

You twist your hand in his own and run a finger haltingly across his cheek. His eyes open, locking with yours as he leans in to the touch.

“My king?” You smile at him, feeling tired and heavy and still hurting, but the draw of him is impossible to resist.

“My spring storm,” he replies, pulling his lips into a tight smile of his own. “While I have come to expect your sudden showers, I was unprepared for this deathly gale. And I am so sorry I was not there to weather it with you.”

Chuckling, you bring your finger forward and back again, enjoying the freedom of being able to touch his fair skin.

“I am the one who should be offering apologies,” you say, watching with fascination the hypnotic movement of your flash on his. “I did not mean to go so far … ”

You feel the tear move down your cheek before Thranduil moves to wipe it away.

“Of that, I am glad.” He whispers, not moving the hand that has now laid claim to your face. “Please do not leave me, little storm. I could not bare it.”

“I do not ever mean to, my king,” you choke out, wondering just how close you had come to that, meaning to or not. This can’t go on. You know it can’t, but—

More tears are falling, and Thranduil wipes away every one, smiling softly.

“Shall we weather this rain together this time, my little storm?”


End file.
